was too familiar. They were foot soldiers in an age-old war against the skin hunters, and this was one more installment in the same-old-same-old.
Sunset on the bayou was pure magic. The birds roosting in the moss-hung cypress greeted the new dark with a raucous shout out, a sharp explosion of sound as the sun finished its slow crawl towards the horizon. As usual, sunset wasn’t romantic.
No, the setting sun was the opening salvo in tonight’s installment of a centuries-old battle.
The fear, though—that was a new emotion. In the handful of seconds before the sun finished its dip and slide beneath the ocean’s edge and made the bayou all lights-out for the night, he wondered how Luc handled not knowing where his mate was or what kind of danger was blowing up around her. He wanted to keep Lark safe and instead she had a ringside seat for tonight’s dinner show. The Pack’s fighters knew their shit, but that didn’t guarantee the outcome he wanted. Only made it more likely.
She could die.
Hell, he could die, but that possibility didn’t engender the nauseating, gut-churning fear he got imagining Lark in the hands of the skin hunters.
He wouldn’t leave Lark alone and unprotected.
She probably wouldn’t see things that way. She might blame him—and not that bitch destiny —for the shit storm knocking on the farm’s front door. It didn’t matter.
He’d fight.
And he’d win.
He wasn’t losing her. Not now that he’d finally found her.
The sun winked out, blanketing the bayou in sleepy darkness, and the skin hunter attack came fast and hard, like always. The vamps pushed fast towards the yard and house. Maybe they’d left Beauville alone. Lark’s neighbors were likely fine for the moment, because fresh meat wasn’t the priority. There was plenty of that anywhere the skin hunters went. No, what the bastards wanted were Pack skins, which meant they targeted the farm first. Anything after that was all bonus. In the early years after he’d been born, he’d seen whole towns emptied out after the vamps had torn through. Slaughterhouse didn’t begin to cover it.
He counted heads as the vamps swarmed the yard and the Pack engaged. A dozen vamps were visible, which meant there were at least twice as many hanging back and coming up on him from behind. The scent, thick and oily, hit him first. The vamps stank of rotting meat and fur. Hunters didn’t bother cleaning up their prizes any, simply slapped them right on. Mismatched fur covered the arms and legs of the first vamp out of the shadows and into the pool of artificial light, the too-white flesh an obscene gleam against the jagged edges of the pelts. Blackened blood had dried on the stiffened edges. Rafer didn’t recognize the faint trace of the skin’s former owner, which was a small blessing.
Behind him, the screen door snapped open.
“Go inside.” He gave the order without turning around.
“Oh, my God,” Lark whispered. More prayer than curse, so yeah, she got the big picture here.
“Go. Now.” He wanted to plant a kiss on her forehead, but his feet were already hitting the steps. Inside was better, but at least on the porch he could keep an eye on her and she had the wall to her back, so no one could sneak up behind her. Later, he’d explain the importance of a mate’s orders in battle. For now, he headed into the yard to take care of business.
“Rafer—”
He didn’t know what she was going to say, but there wasn’t enough time for a heart-to-heart, so he kept on going. Still, he didn’t want to die without telling her the truth this once.
“I love you,” he said and cleared the porch.
~*~
What the hell was she supposed to say? It was a good thing Lark hadn’t known Rafer was feeling sentimental, because she suspected she wouldn’t have held it together. Rafer fascinated and frustrated her. Her body wanted him something fierce, but her heart had been holding back. He loved her. Those words had her eyes
Sunset on the bayou was pure magic. The birds roosting in the moss-hung cypress greeted the new dark with a raucous shout out, a sharp explosion of sound as the sun finished its slow crawl towards the horizon. As usual, sunset wasn’t romantic.
No, the setting sun was the opening salvo in tonight’s installment of a centuries-old battle.
The fear, though—that was a new emotion. In the handful of seconds before the sun finished its dip and slide beneath the ocean’s edge and made the bayou all lights-out for the night, he wondered how Luc handled not knowing where his mate was or what kind of danger was blowing up around her. He wanted to keep Lark safe and instead she had a ringside seat for tonight’s dinner show. The Pack’s fighters knew their shit, but that didn’t guarantee the outcome he wanted. Only made it more likely.
She could die.
Hell, he could die, but that possibility didn’t engender the nauseating, gut-churning fear he got imagining Lark in the hands of the skin hunters.
He wouldn’t leave Lark alone and unprotected.
She probably wouldn’t see things that way. She might blame him—and not that bitch destiny —for the shit storm knocking on the farm’s front door. It didn’t matter.
He’d fight.
And he’d win.
He wasn’t losing her. Not now that he’d finally found her.
The sun winked out, blanketing the bayou in sleepy darkness, and the skin hunter attack came fast and hard, like always. The vamps pushed fast towards the yard and house. Maybe they’d left Beauville alone. Lark’s neighbors were likely fine for the moment, because fresh meat wasn’t the priority. There was plenty of that anywhere the skin hunters went. No, what the bastards wanted were Pack skins, which meant they targeted the farm first. Anything after that was all bonus. In the early years after he’d been born, he’d seen whole towns emptied out after the vamps had torn through. Slaughterhouse didn’t begin to cover it.
He counted heads as the vamps swarmed the yard and the Pack engaged. A dozen vamps were visible, which meant there were at least twice as many hanging back and coming up on him from behind. The scent, thick and oily, hit him first. The vamps stank of rotting meat and fur. Hunters didn’t bother cleaning up their prizes any, simply slapped them right on. Mismatched fur covered the arms and legs of the first vamp out of the shadows and into the pool of artificial light, the too-white flesh an obscene gleam against the jagged edges of the pelts. Blackened blood had dried on the stiffened edges. Rafer didn’t recognize the faint trace of the skin’s former owner, which was a small blessing.
Behind him, the screen door snapped open.
“Go inside.” He gave the order without turning around.
“Oh, my God,” Lark whispered. More prayer than curse, so yeah, she got the big picture here.
“Go. Now.” He wanted to plant a kiss on her forehead, but his feet were already hitting the steps. Inside was better, but at least on the porch he could keep an eye on her and she had the wall to her back, so no one could sneak up behind her. Later, he’d explain the importance of a mate’s orders in battle. For now, he headed into the yard to take care of business.
“Rafer—”
He didn’t know what she was going to say, but there wasn’t enough time for a heart-to-heart, so he kept on going. Still, he didn’t want to die without telling her the truth this once.
“I love you,” he said and cleared the porch.
~*~
What the hell was she supposed to say? It was a good thing Lark hadn’t known Rafer was feeling sentimental, because she suspected she wouldn’t have held it together. Rafer fascinated and frustrated her. Her body wanted him something fierce, but her heart had been holding back. He loved her. Those words had her eyes
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